The Dread in the Darkness
by Crazyeight
Summary: The shadow never forgot him after the breaking of the north, and as it prepared for war once more, it found him, lingering in waste and diminished. Yet, it would have him in its service. "Always after a defeat and a respite, the Shadow takes another shape and grows again." And he would grow again, for he was of the shadow as well. And the fire would return.


Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings

The Dread in the Darkness

A Lord of the Rings story by: Crazyeight

The arrival of dusk found him making his way down the stone halls, his booted feet echoing loudly in his ears. He felt tired, and the great axe – a dull yellow color flecked with green; bronze and stone being all the men in this land could work with – thrust into the loop of rope tied about his waist felt like a lead weight to him.

He hated that feeling. That… _weakness._ He bore it for a long time and there was little he could do about it. It was, after all, _his_ fault.

Opening the heavy door to his chamber with a grunt, he stepped inside and closed it behind him with a dull thud. Small flames winked into existence from candles, illuminating the room with flickering shadows and a soft, orange glow. Running his hand through the thick, deep red mane of his beard, he proceeded to untie the loop from around his waist, snorting tiredly.

He had only a second to notice the presence of a cold, yet familiar chill in the air before spinning around, axe flying into his hand as he fell into a guard position. There, seated in a corner next to his bed, cloaked in black with pale hands folded together on his lap, gazed at him with a small, amused smile beneath the shadows of his hood.

"I was told you were warier than this," the cloaked man said, indifferent to the axe being held threateningly before him. "Perhaps I should advise the Great Lord of this…discrepancy."

"Who are you?" the red-beard growled menacingly. The cloak chuckled, but remained unmoved.

"I am but a part of He who would have you in his service," the shadow-shrouded man explained. "His mouth wherever he desires His Word to be. Just as you were the right hand to _He_ who greater."

The red-beard frowned at the shadow, his amber-colored eyes a shining ember in the candlelight.

"I have no love for words that fence around the edges," he replied. "Speak plainly, lest you speak in the only tongue one can have with my axe. My patience wears thin."

"Very well then." And at once, the cloaked man drew himself to his full stature. A heavy weight grew in the air, and the shadows seemed to stretch forth, shrouding the man and blending with his cloak, giving him a vaster presence. The axman adjusted his grip on his blade, glowering as the dark fangs bit into the feeble light of the room, swallowing it bit by bit.

"I know this shadow…" he snorted. The smile behind the cloak widened upon hearing this, and the shadows retreated.

"And my master knows you as well, and he would have you in his service. Even dwindled and faded as you are from your fall, he has use for you. Yet dwindled and faded you are, so I was bidden to present you with a token. A promise for the future of your service."

Lifting one hand, he held out a silver ring burnished with a gem of sparkling amethyst atop the gleaming band.

"Power you had once, Lord of Dread," he continued. "Power you may claim again, should you have the courage to stretch out your hand to seize it."

His smile grew as his eyes met the burning coals of the red-beard, who stood across from him, his thoughts smoldering over the offered gift.

"Better than fading in this backwater, is it not?"

Hefting his axe, the red-beard looked upon his blade thoughtfully, the bronze glimmering in the candlelight, marred only by the flecks of green on its mirrored surface. Thoughts ran through his mind. Thoughts of the past; of many wars and battles from long, bygone ages. Power and _majesty_ at his command…

 _To have that again. To return to that greatness… Perhaps together we can finish what we couldn't._

Visions of greatness restored flooding his mind; of commanding legions untold, he flung his worthless axe to the floor. Striding up to the cloaked man, he snatched the ring out of his hand – ignoring his triumphant smile – and set it upon his finger where the amethyst began to glow softly.

"The Dark Tower welcomes you, Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs," the Mouth of Sauron said with shining eyes as the candlelight flickered about them in the growing shadow of the night.


End file.
